by Eileen Wilks
Gwen blotted the floor and apologized some more while Ben dug out another deck of cards – she'd soaked the best hand she'd held all night – and Duncan wiped down the table. Charlie pounced on the radio and found a station that played golden oldies. Ben started dealing, which naturally provoked an argument over whose deal it was. While they argued, she went to the sink to dampen some more paper towels so she could get the stickiness off the floor.
Why had she done that? She hadn't even thought – she'd just acted. She couldn't let Duncan's brothers see him like that.
It had been an impulse, and a stupid one. She had no right to make such judgments. Except that she was still stupidly, irrationally certain he would have hated being exposed that way, that it would somehow have made things worse for him.
When she turned around he was right there. In front of her. Gwen's heart jumped into her throat.
"Trade you," he said, handing her a full glass of cola.
"I'm glad you'll trust me with another glass after what I— Oh, no," she said when he tried to take the damp paper towels from her. "I made the mess. I'll clean it up."
He gave a small shake of his head and took her hand in both of his. Gently he opened her fingers. His eyes weren't rain-colored now, but darker. Like the sky before a storm, she thought. His voice was quiet. "No. You've done enough."
* * *
Chapter 10
«^»
Sleep was a successful fugitive that night. Gwen chased it for more than an hour after the house was dark and quiet, but couldn't even find the trail. She was too busy traveling in circles, tripping off down the paths of her own whirligig thoughts.
He'd known. Somehow Duncan had known she'd spilled the glass on purpose and probably why she'd done it. She could have sworn he hadn't seen her – that he hadn't seen anything except whatever demons had been conjured up by the news of the sniper.
She must have given herself away somehow.
Gwen rolled onto her side, careful not to wake Zach, and punched her pillow into a new shape. It didn't matter, she assured herself. He hadn't sounded angry.
But who could tell, from the way Duncan sounded, from the way he looked, what he was really feeling?
They'd played cards for another hour and he'd teased and joked and won a few hands. He'd probably bluffed on one of them – everyone else had dropped out and he'd refused to show his cards, which had irritated Gwen no end. Everyone had thought her reaction was funny.
Duncan was too good at bluffing. Too good at keeping everything to himself. And she'd helped him, dammit. Gwen flopped over on her back. She'd helped him hide.
But she knew what it felt like to have people, however caring, poke at places too raw for any touch. When her cancer was first diagnosed, she'd coped by tying a smile on her face, dreading pity even more than she'd feared the disease. She hadn't wanted to go to the support group her doctor recommended, but fears were like mushrooms. They grew like crazy in the dark. Hers had grown too big to balance on her own, so she'd given in and gone.
Thank God she had. It had been possible to say things in that group that she couldn't imagine saying anywhere else. No one there felt sorry for anyone else – they were all coping, that was all. They all knew, from the bones out, what it was like.
The group had originally met at the medical center, under the auspices of a therapist who served as a facilitator for their discussions. Gwen and five of the others had continued meeting after the official sessions ended, getting together every other week or so for lunch or dinner. She'd never been closer to anyone in her life than she was to these women, though on the surface they had little in common.
Gwen was the youngest of them. At seventy-one, Louise Bell was the oldest, a lively widow who'd been talking marriage with the widower she'd been seeing at the time her cancer was diagnosed. He hadn't been able to deal with her disease. She hadn't dated since.
Emma Fowler was fifty-nine, a former hippie who worked as a highly paid lobbyist now. She was soft-spoken, tough-minded and recently divorced. Her husband had coped with her diagnosis by having an affair. She'd found out in the middle of chemo.
Not all men were bastards. Hillary Friedman was fifty-two, a surgical nurse who cursed like a dockworker and hugged like a grandma. She'd been married for more than thirty years to the same man, a blacksmith who sang tenor with the local choir and was devoted to his wife, from what Gwen could tell. Hillary had joined the group after losing her second breast to cancer.
Linda Blackman was forty-five, a minister's wife with four children, three still at home. Her husband Ed, fifty and pudgy, had taken a year's sabbatical to care for Linda and their children while she underwent surgery, radiation and chemo. When her hair fell out in clumps, he'd shaved her head – and his own. They'd been quite a sight for a while, the two of them walking around bald as eggs, holding hands and smiling.
Gwen didn't think she was the only one who envied Linda.
Then there was Kelly. Just thinking of her made Gwen smile. Opinionated, funny, with the hoarse voice of a former smoker, Kelly Morales was the closest to Gwen's age in their group. She'd been fast-tracking her way up the corporate ladder, having crashed through the glass ceiling by the time she was diagnosed with cancer at age forty. At some point between surgery and radiation, she'd decided the whole boardroom bit was a crock and quit. These days she called herself a born-again hedonist.
Kelly had been divorced twice. Last year she'd remarried her first husband. The two of them argued a lot, couldn't keep their hands off each other and desperately wanted a child. They were on a cruise now that Kelly had dubbed the fertility tour.
Which was just as well, because Gwen suddenly craved her friend's voice and good sense so much she might have picked up the phone and called her if she'd been home. Not a good idea, she thought, lying flat on her back and staring up at the darkness. It would be after two in the morning in Florida.
"So what should I do, Kels?" Gwen whispered.
Her mind furnished the reply in Kelly's dry tone: About what? The man you want, the man you think you should want, or the fact that you're lying awake talking to someone who isn't there?
That made her grin and toss back the covers. She might not have answers to the first two questions, but the third was a familiar problem – at least, the sleepless part was. No point in grimly trying to force sleep on herself. It wasn't happening. She might as well get up and work awhile.
Nothing woke Zach from a sound sleep except light. Daylight, moonlight, the light from a computer monitor – any increase in light would have his eyes snapping open. So she slipped on her robe and headed for the stairs, leaving the door open. Just in case.
At the foot of the stairs she paused, glancing at the front door and thinking of the times this past week she'd awoken to the sound of Duncan's door opening or closing in the middle of the night.
He hadn't gone running tonight. Maybe having Charlie home helped. She headed for the den.
It was a cozy little room that might have been intended for a study when the house was built, but was used now as a TV room. The end tables and shelves were solid, scarred oak; the big recliner that faced the television was new and cushy. One wall was floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with books and old board games. Gwen studied the titles. A twenty-year-old encyclopedia, some recent thrillers, an assortment of westerns and a surprisingly extensive collection of nonfiction historical books.
Ben's? she wondered, crouching and letting her fingers slide from Soldiers, Suttlers and Settlers to Paul Revere's Ride. Or Charlie's? Or were they Duncan's?
Never mind, she told herself sternly. She could speculate about that tomorrow if she just had to. Right now she needed to think about something – anything – other than the McClain men.
Most of the books were on American history, but there were quite a few on European history, too, including three on the Napoleonic wars. In the end Gwen curled up in the big recliner with Henry VIII. The Tudor king did the job, providing just enoug
h distraction for sleep to sneak up on her without being compelling enough to chase it away again. The second time her bobbing head jerked her awake, she yawned, stretched and headed back upstairs.
It was dark and silent and her feet were freezing. She was thinking sleepy, unhappy thoughts about having to buy a pair of slippers when she passed Duncan's closed door.
From inside came a muffled shout.
She stopped, instinctively reaching for the doorknob. A nightmare? Illness? Her better sense caught up with her before she turned the knob. Duncan wasn't her son. She couldn't just barge in.
On the other side of the door there was a long, low groan. Oh, God. She had to do something.
She rapped on his door. "Duncan? Are you all right?"
She heard him mutter, then movement, as if he were thrashing around without waking. She knocked again. More muttering. Dammit, he must sleep as soundly as Zach.
Gwen turned the knob.
Moonlight spilled through the slats of the blinds to stripe the sheet twisted at his feet, the taut, white sheet beneath him and his legs. The bands of light ended at midthigh.
He was naked.
Gwen stopped dead, trapped by the sight of him – shadowed, yes, but not enough. This was wrong, barging in on him this way. She was invading his privacy. Best if she went back in the hall, slamming the door behind her. Surely that would wake him. She reached behind her, finding the doorknob by feel.
His head thrashed on the pillow. "No," he said clearly. "No, no, no."
Gwen let go of the doorknob and took a single step forward – and nearly jumped out of her skin as two large hands gripped her shoulders from behind, stopping her.
"I'd better do it," a voice said from several inches above her ear.
The quick, frightened hammer of her heart didn't die down even when her brain identified the voice as Charlie's. He moved her aside and went to the bed. He wore a pair of jeans, and nothing else.
"Hey," he said, reaching down to shake his brother's shoulder. "Better wake—"
Duncan exploded in silence. Moving so fast it was a confusing blur to Gwen, he shot up, seizing his brother and twisting. Somehow he ended up on his knees with his forearm across Charlie's neck, one hand gripping the other to lock that deadly hold in place. Charlie's back was arched. He was utterly still.
Slowly Duncan's arm relaxed. His breath shuddered out in what might have been a sob as he released his brother and sank back on his heels.
Charlie leaned forward, rubbing his neck. He cleared his throat. "Okay, I know you don't like to be woken up, but don't you think you're overreacting?"
Duncan made a hoarse sound caught between misery and amusement. His chest heaved once, twice, but when he spoke, his voice was steady. "Sorry about that. You're going to have to be quicker or learn to sleep through my racket. I don't want to kill you, too."
Too?
Shaken, Gwen fled before Duncan could spot her lurking in his doorway, seeing and hearing what he wouldn't want her to see and hear. Back in her room she flung her robe on the floor and climbed into bed with her sleeping son. And shivered.
Duncan had killed. In the line of duty, yes, but that didn't keep it from haunting him, wrecking his sleep and freezing him in place when he heard news of a sniper.
He'd said he was a sharpshooter. Like the police sharpshooters who had killed the sniper? She supposed it must be similar. And wondered what it did to a man to do that – to take slow, careful aim on another man and wait for a chance to kill him.
Her mind replayed the scene in his bedroom again and again, looking for hints, hoping for understanding. And catching, lingering in spite of herself, on the dimly glimpsed shadows and planes of his body. Then, she'd only been conscious of the violation of her presence when he was naked in every way. Now she couldn't ignore another reaction.
She moved restlessly. Hunger twitched and itched beneath her skin. Her breasts felt full and achy, and she rolled onto her stomach, turning her head to stare bleakly at the darkened shapes of her borrowed room.
Charlie had shown up awfully fast. That first, muffled shout must have woken him, but he hadn't had to stop and figure out where the sound came from or what was happening. He'd taken the time to pull on his jeans, but that was all, before heading straight for Duncan's room. Where Duncan had tried to choke him.
No, she amended quickly. That wasn't fair. Duncan had reacted, that was all, reacted from training and instinct, from the depths of whatever nightmare had wrenched those terrible groans from his chest. He'd sobbed – maybe it had been a sob – when he released Charlie.
Who hadn't been all that surprised. She lay still, absorbing that. Accepting that she'd been even stupider than she'd realized. Covering up Duncan's earlier lapse had been a mistake, all right, but not for the reason she'd thought. Because it had been unnecessary. Charlie had been all too ready to intervene in his brother's nightmare. He knew. And Ben … well, Ben nagged. He showed his worry by fussing if Duncan didn't wear a hat and trying to talk him into leaving the service. So he had some idea of what demons were stalking Duncan.
A better idea than Gwen had, probably. Duncan's, brothers knew him. She'd been foolish to think she'd seen something they hadn't. And doubly foolish, unforgivably so, to think he might need her. Or that, if he did, she would be able to help.
Lying on her stomach wasn't improving her other problem. Her pulse throbbed between her legs, making her want more pressure there, more… God, she thought, rolling onto her back again, throwing her forearm over her eyes. Had she wanted this? Had she actually prayed to feel like a woman again?
Her lips twitched wryly. Be careful what you ask for… Life had returned all too insistently.
Gwen had always had an active libido, an easy enjoyment of the thrill of desire. Maybe too easy, she'd thought after she found herself pregnant and alone. Pregnancy, childbirth, the exhaustion of trying to work and care for a baby – it was no surprise she'd had little interest in men after Zach was born, but she hadn't expected that to be permanent.
Then had come the diagnosis, the discovery that her body had betrayed her. Surgery had followed, then radiation, then the drug that suppressed her body's production of estrogen, which was a likely culprit in the form of cancer she had. The tamoxifen had finished destroying her sex drive even as it threw her into premature menopause.
That, thank God, had been temporary, but desire hadn't returned along with her periods. Until now.
No doubt if it had been Ben she'd seen naked instead of Duncan, she'd be obsessing over his body now. Maybe she should creep down the hall and try to sneak a peek and find out whose body kept her awake.
That thought brought amusement, but it died all too quickly. Maybe she should stop dragging her feet. Ben had asked her to marry him. If his motive wasn't romantic, he was still a good man, the kind of man she'd always hoped to find. A man she'd been attracted to once. One she was growing to care about now.
Maybe she did need to find out if Ben's body could stir her.
It was a long time before exhaustion finally claimed her, dragging her down to sleep. When it did, she dreamed – confusing snatches, fragmented bits and pieces. Some of the bits were sexy. Some were frightening. And all of them were about the wrong brother.
* * *
Chapter 11
«^»
His family was falling apart, and he hadn't been able to get a handle on what was wrong, much less figure out how to fix things for his brothers.
Ben's brow furrowed as he slowed for the turn onto Oak. Duncan had always been the quiet one, slow to anger, steady as a rock. All of a sudden his temper was on a hair trigger. The change had something to do with Duncan's last mission, Ben was sure of that much. No point asking what, though. It had probably been covert work, hush-hush stuff he wasn't supposed to talk about.
Dammit. Ben turned down his street. When you added the military's passion for secrecy to a naturally deep reserve, you got a man who could give clams lessons.
If that wasn't enough, now Charlie was talking about hitchhiking around the country. Christ. Couldn't the idiot find himself while driving his truck?
Idiot was right, Ben thought, scowling. Charlie had obviously lost whatever sense he used to have. He'd proved that this morning when he dropped by the site and starting making those stupid hints.
"Dad, you know that big machine? The one that looks like a dinosaur getting ready to chomp on things?"
Ben's heart lifted. For all that was wrong right now one thing was very right. "The trackhoe? The big Caterpillar that was digging today?"
"Yeah, the Pat-a-piller."
Ben glanced at the boy belted into the passenger seat of his truck. Zach had gotten such a kick out of going to the site with him the other day that he'd repeated it. The boy was crazy about the earth-moving equipment "What about it?"
"I saw one like it at Roy's Toys, except it was little. But it looked like yours."
Ben grinned. "It's not mine, son, just leased. A toy trackhoe, huh? Where's this Roy's Toys?"
"Back home. It's a real cool place," Zach said with relish. "Is there a Roy's Toys here?"
The words back home pinched Ben's heart. He didn't want his son's home to be halfway across the country from him. But he couldn't say that to Zach, so he filled the last few blocks to his home with a description of local toy stores while arguing silently with his conscience. Would it violate his promise to Gwen if he bought Zach a toy bulldozer?
No, he decided as he pulled into the driveway. One toy wasn't an avalanche. But he'd tell her first, so she wouldn't think he was trying to go behind her back.
He felt another rush of gladness as he climbed out of his truck. Usually he didn't come home for lunch. What was the point in rushing away from the job to eat in an empty house, then rushing back again? But the house wasn't empty now. He wanted to believe this was the way things could be from now on. He wanted to come home for lunch often and find Gwen waiting for him.
Of course, he had some work to do there, he thought as Zach raced ahead to the door. She didn't see him. Oh, she saw her son's father and seemed to like what she saw that way, and that was a start. But she wasn't seeing him as a man.